


Lovefool

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221-Boyfriends, A little bit of Top!John's what I see, A little bit of crackiness in my life, A little bit of fluff by my side, A little bit of smut is all I need, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, But they do figure it out eventually, But they're both idiots of course, Caring John, Clueless John, Clueless Sherlock, Crack, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, PWP, Sherlock is just trying to get it on yall, Smut, They basically just live life not knowing what's going on ever, Vulnerable John, Vulnerable Sherlock, ajsdalkjsdhjlkasdfs, anyway they're in love, don't tell my wips i'm here, love love love, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21569266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: John bows his head as his hands fall to Sherlock's shoulders. “Your observations. All of those things you said about me. They were right, you know.""Erm, yes? I do know. Of course I’m right. Glad we’re clear on that.” Sherlock leans back in and puckers his lips. “Let’s kiss.““There is one thing you missed, however.”Sherlock snaps out of his haze. “I missed something? What did I miss?"John takes Sherlock’s head back into his hands—so delicately, this time, it’s as though he’s sure Sherlock will break. “Look at me one more time, Sherlock,” he whispers. “And tell me what you see.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 538





	Lovefool

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [恋爱笨蛋（Lovefool）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22387825) by [Stephanie0208](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephanie0208/pseuds/Stephanie0208)



> Oh heeeey! This is the first Johnlock one-shot I've written in many months, and it was written in one (281933944-hour) sitting! It sort of just flew out of my fingers, like Captain Marvel with her fists of fire. But there's more sex, and absolutely no fire. Anyway, I'm delighted this happened, because I think it means this story really wanted to be written!
> 
> It's also slightly more lighthearted than some of my other recent stuff, so you can laugh, if you want. If you don't want to, you can just leave a comment and pretend you did. Nobody will ever know. x

“And therefore,” Sherlock remarks casually, not bothering to lift his eyes from the screen of his laptop. “...The obvious solution is that you and I have sexual intercourse.”

John spits out his tea. The distance it spews from his mouth is actually quite impressive; a droplet even lands on the arm of Sherlock’s chair.

It’s unclear to Sherlock, however, why he is reacting in such a manner. It is, after all, the perfect solution to their problems. 

Sherlock has now been stuck on the Clarendon murder case for three days straight. He can’t focus. He can’t think. And it is one million percent John’s fault.

Because it’s been _weeks_ since John has had any form of intimate physical release, and the flat is buzzing loudly with echoes of his bisexual frustration. And it makes no difference if Sherlock retreats to his Mind Palace, or John retreats to his bedroom; it’s a dark cloud, taking up so much space, so permeating that it rattles every one of Sherlock's (many, many) brain cells.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John squawks, his voice soaring upwards precisely one octave. As he wipes the tea from his chin and various parts of clothing, his face grows pale, his eyes as wide as the harvest moon.

Sherlock’s patience is already wearing thin. He lifts a brow before leaning in very, very slowly.

“Me.” He extends his index finger towards John’s chest. “You.” He nods. “Sex. That is the solution."

John shifts in his armchair, visibly uncomfortable. “Y-Y-yeah, I… heard you the first time, but, erm..." he sputters. “The solution to _what_ , now?“

Sherlock huffs, flinging his arms outwards before rising dramatically from his seat. “We _talked_ about this. He ruffles his own hair in frustration. “It has been four months and sixteen days since you’ve had sex with anyone, and your hormones and your sulking are so tangibly _annoying_ that I cannot seem to solve anything of importance.”

John stares back blankly, his mouth hanging open. “I… Sherlock. I haven’t got a clue what you're referring to. We haven’t talked about this, not once. I think I’d remember—“

“Didn’t we?!” Sherlock interjects, freezing mid-pace and planting his feet directly in front of John's chair. "Wait. We didn't?"

"Afraid not." John gazes up at him incredulously, but his eyes contain a hint of amusement. 

"Oh. Hm. Well. I was certainly talking about it this morning, and fairly sure that I was speaking out loud. When you failed to respond, I assumed you simply had no objections." He takes another step towards John. They’re so close that their knees would be touching, if only John’s legs weren’t so short.

John presses his lips into a thin line. “You _are_ aware that I occasionally leave the flat?”

Sherlock crinkles his nose in confusion. “Why?”

“Because, you know...I have a job? And because I occasionally go on dates? Thanks for bringing _that_ up, by the way. It's terribly flattering that you’ve been keeping track of my—”

“Be quiet, John.” Sherlock moves closer. “Be quiet and have sex with me.”

“Sherlock!” John lifts his feet and kicks Sherlock squarely on the front of his shins. “Cut it out!”

Sherlock backs away, using every inch of effort he has not to cry out in pain, but John just glances back down at his utterly boring newspaper.

“Look, Sherlock. I don’t know _what_ has gotten into you, but this thing that you’re ...suggesting...it isn’t the solution. So you’re just going to have to think of something else."

Sherlock inhales deeply, reflecting his deep, deep annoyance. He also notes that in the past ninety seconds, John's pulse has begun beating quite quickly, and that small beads of sweat are forming at his brow. And that he’s compulsively licking his lips, as though they’ve been covered in an addictive mixture of cocaine and chocolate and honey—the same evidence John always exhibits when he wants to have sex with someone. And unless John has suddenly formed an attraction to newspaper ink, Sherlock is entirely sure he wants it to be with him.

Still—he wasn't expecting this game of cat and mouse. Thankfully, that’s a game Sherlock never loses.

As his shins pulsate with the fiery pain of having been kicked by a small man skilled in military combat, Sherlock has a brilliant idea—the best idea he's had for three whole days. He turns, facing the door to his room. "Meet me in my chambers in five minutes, John,” he instructs, dusting off the collar of his dress shirt.

“What?!” John calls out. "What are you on about? And who calls it a chamber? It's a bedroom. _Bedroom_. This isn't sixteenth century, Sherlock!”

“See you in five minutes," Sherlock replies, and he slips away into the next room.

***

It’s been five minutes on the dot. John knocks tentatively at Sherlock's door. 

Sherlock grins. “Come in.”

The door cracks open and John peeks in. "Yeah, hi. Sherlock, I, erm, look—“ He trails off mid sentence, gaping at Sherlock, who is sprawled across his bed, fully clothed and ready for sex.

John's forehead crinkles into a frown. “Hey!” He gestures towards the computer laying in front of Sherlock. “Is that my laptop?”

Sherlock begins to type idly. "Oh, this? I believe so, yes."

“Dammit, Sherlock! I've been looking all over for that! And why is it in your bedroom? Please don’t tell me you’ve been—“

“Ew, no. John, don’t be ridiculous. The battery to my laptop died,” he explains.

“But you were just _on_ your laptop! Five minutes ago! And it seemed to be charged and working perfectly!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, teetering once again on the edge of his patience. “It died _Wednesday_ , while you were at _work_." He huffs. "By the way, your pre-coital conversational skills are atrocious. Zero out of ten. Not sexy at all."

“I’m not _trying_ to be sexy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignores his statement, because he's obviously lying, and he turns the laptop screen to face him. “Look.”

John leans in cautiously, squinting at the screen from the doorway entrance.

“Oh, come _here_ ,” Sherlock says. “It isn’t as though I'm going to...tear off your trousers, one-handed, in a fit of unbridled passion, while you’re scrolling through Gmail." He momentarily regards John's wardrobe. “...Especially not those corduroy trousers that I’m fairly certain my father also owns.”

“Oi!” John hisses.

“Come look at this,” Sherlock insists. 

John takes one tiny step. “I’m...I'm going to sit next to you on the bed now,” he explains. “But it's just so that I can see. _Not_ so that I can have sex with you. Understood?”

“Of course!” Sherlock grins widely and pats the open spot on the bed next to him. “No sex, John. None. Not even a tiny bit.” He’s very proud of himself for not laughing as he says this, because there will, as they both know, be heaps of sex.

John finally sits next to Sherlock, his body quite obviously tense.

“Relax,” Sherlock softly urges. John gives him a half-smile before steadily moving in towards the laptop.

Sure, John seems calm and collected at the moment, but Sherlock once again observes otherwise. The leaping pulse. His neck, glistening with sweat. His hands splayed over his lap, working very hard to hide the fact that he’s becoming aroused. 

"It’s an email,” John concludes. “From a potential client.”

“Yes.”

John side-eyes him. “...And?”

Sherlock rolls over to one side, resting his head in his hand, and he smiles at John flirtatiously. “I haven’t read it yet.” 

“So what?”

Argh. Sherlock feels like banging his head into a nearby pillow. “I want _you_ to read it to me,” he purrs, pushing the laptop towards John.

“Um. Okay.” John takes the computer. “...And then what?”

“I’m going to solve it.“ Sherlock slowly and seductively inches closer. “In under. one. minute."

“Oh.” John shrugs. “Yeah, sure, sounds about right.” 

“And then, you’re going to have sex with me.”

John slams the lid of his laptop shut. “Good evening, Sherlock.” He calmly stands to leave.

But Sherlock grabs him by the wrist and tugs him back. "Wait. Don’t go.”

John freezes. “Sherlock—“

“Please.” Sherlock moves to the edge of the bed and pulls John back down next to him. “I realise I haven’t handled this situation gracefully. And that perhaps my explanation was unclear.”

"Actually, your explanation was nonexistent.” John folds his arms over his chest. “You think you can just spring something like this suddenly and expect me to play along? That’s not how it works, Sherlock. Sex between two people... it shouldn’t be used simply as a means to an end.”

Sherlock thinks he can feel his heart drop down to his stomach. “That’s...that’s all you think this is?”

John grows restless, tapping his fingers over his forearm. “Isn’t it?”

”No. I desperately wanted you to move past this sexual dry spell of yours so that I could get back to work, but I could have achieved this in various other ways. I offered to be the one to help, however, because...because of, well, you know.”

John’s expression remains blank. “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"John.” He sighs and slides his hand over John’s arm, placing it softly on his shoulder. “As you’re aware, I’m the most observant man in London. I’m quite possibly the most observant man in world. Do you honestly think I don’t notice the way you look at me?” 

John doesn’t answer, but relaxes into his touch.

“There has always been something between us,” Sherlock continues. “It may not have a name, but it's there. You and I appear to have a chemistry that is, at the very least, undeniable—at its highest level, unprecedented. And I _know_ you feel it. And I know that you want these things. With me.”

John finally turns. "How do you know?"

"Are you asking me to provide evidence based on my observations?”

John shrugs. “I’ve never been successful in stopping it.”

Sherlock inhales. This is simple. A deduction. He’s done thousands of them, so why is this one more difficult than any other?

”Alright. John." He exhales. "You have a habit of staring at my lips, because you want to kiss them. When you begin to lick your own, it's as if you're..practicing for the role. Has anyone told you that you do that quite a lot? Anyway, sometimes, when we’re out in London together, and a small breeze blows through my hair, your fingers twitch as you watch it pass. You want so badly to simply touch it—a desire that I would be more than happy to provide you with. You don't seem to think I see you watching me whenever I walk through the sitting room, wrapped in only a towel—so I feel this might be a good time to inform you: the microwave oven reflects everything that happens in the sitting room. And also, I wear only a towel far more often when I know you'll be watching. Shall I go on?"

"No, no.” John smiles weakly and nods. “That's enough, Sherlock."

Sherlock turns to rest his chin in John's soft hair—a gesture of tenderness that surprises even _him._ John melts into him almost immediately. He snakes his arms beneath Sherlock’s, settling them at Sherlock’s waist.

“I assure you, by the way," Sherlock says, rustling John’s hair with his words. “...that for everything I've mentioned, the feeling...the desire...is completely mutual.”

“Is it?” John murmurs against his neck.

_“Clearly.”_

“No, no—“ John chuckles under his breath. “Sherlock, it's really _not_ clear to the regular people,” he reminds him. “We’re all a bit slower than you.”

“John. I have spent the past hour _begging_ you to have sex with me. If it still isn’t clear to you, you aren't just a little slow; you are a complete moron.”

John bursts into laughter. “And you are a complete and utter dick.”

“Yes.” Growing ever more impatient, Sherlock wraps every limb at his disposal around John’s body. "Now." He kisses the top of his head. “Have sex with me.”

John hums contentedly beneath him. “Hmm. How about I kiss you first?” 

An undeniable thrill surges through Sherlock's body. “If you must.”

After John untwists himself, he looks up at Sherlock with a smile, and reaches over, brushing his callused fingers lightly over his face. With his other hand, he firmly grips Sherlock’s chin, tilting him down to bring their lips together. Their short, irregular breaths mingle in the air between their mouths, quick and unsteady.

Sherlock’s eyes fall closed as he shivers with anticipation. “John—“ he whispers.

John suddenly pulls away. 

“Hmmmm?” Sherlock’s eyes fly open. “What’s the matter?”

John bows his head as his hands fall to Sherlock's shoulders. “Your observations. All of those things you said about me. They were right, you know."

"Erm, yes? I do know. Of course I’m right. Glad we’re clear on that.” Sherlock leans back in and puckers his lips. “Let’s kiss.“

“There is _one_ thing you missed, however.”

Sherlock snaps out of his haze. “I _missed_ something? What did I miss?"

John takes Sherlock’s head back into his hands—so delicately, this time, it’s as though he’s sure Sherlock will break. “Look at me one more time, Sherlock,” he whispers. “And you tell me what you see.”

Sherlock tilts his head down. But the look John is giving him—it can't be summed up with mere words.

He looks at him the same way he always has: as though he’s the most beautiful thing in the universe. As though he’s hung the moon. As though he's more valuable than all of the world's gold. As though he could easily peer directly into his soul, if such a thing existed. 

_Oh._

Sherlock takes a in a sharp breath.

“John. Really?"

John leans in to press their foreheads together. "Really.” He smooths down the sides of Sherlock's hair. "So you see why I was hesitant?”

Sherlock swallows thickly. “Yes,” he croaks. He clears his throat and tries again. "Yes." He swallows. “Water? I need water. Where do I get water?”

"Kitchen sink?” 

“Yes. I’d like one of those, please."

John laughs, and his laughter is such beautiful music that Sherlock wants to cry. Hm. _That’s_ new. 

It’s now Sherlock who is all sweaty and tachycardic. Also, he might be going into shock, or cardiac arrest, or both at once, because either of these scenarios are far more likely than John Watson being in love with him.

His head is spinning. He feels like he’s falling through the mattress. His entire body is jelly, and—

John softly presses his lips to his, and everything halts, and there is no longer any doubt.

John _does_ love him. 

And Sherlock loves him, too.

Ha. That’s _also_ new. Or is it? No. It’s not new, Sherlock realises. Sherlock is just an idiot—perhaps an even bigger idiot than John, and that’s quite profound.

But now isn't the time to think about that. Because John is _kissing him._

Sherlock centers himself, sighing into John’s warm mouth as he nibbles at Sherlock’s bottom lip. He sweeps his tongue over it, and nibbles again, knotting his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and pressing his head in to deepen the kiss. Sherlock's mouth falls open, and he wraps his long arms around John’s waist and inhales, and he's drowning in sensations: he’s tasting John and smelling him and holding him and loving him all at once.

John tugs at Sherlock’s curls to tilt his head back, and Sherlock whimpers at the loss of the kiss. But he soon forgets as John places wet, open-mouthed kisses onto his neck, and his collarbone, and his Adam’s apple, and his shoulders, sending waves of electric currents through his body.

“ _God,”_ Sherlock moans softly, "John." John hums lowly in response, pulling _firmly_ at his curls—and oh, Sherlock likes that quite a lot. 

“Nnnngggh. Again,” he whispers, and John smiles against his clavicle and pulls. 

“Aaaahhh. Joh-" But before he can finish his thought, John surges forwards, sealing their mouths back together. He licks into Sherlock’s mouth without mercy as Sherlock writhes against him, and neither one of them is being delicate or tender anymore.

But the kiss ends as abruptly as it had begun, with John moving away to lock eyes with him. “Lie down on the bed again, Sherlock,” he demands. “On your back. Now.”

Sherlock feels a rush of blood flowing to his face and ears. John is using his Captain Watson voice, and when he pulls out that trick, Sherlock can’t follow orders quickly enough. He bites his lip to keep from responding “Yes, Captain," and flops down onto his back.

John stands at the foot of the bed, and as he watches Sherlock, the fierce military man instantly melts away. Warmth and happiness bubble up in Sherlock’s chest. John looks different now, he thinks. His hair is mussed, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are lakes of royal blue. He looks gorgeous. He looks loved.

For several moments, they say nothing, but stare at one another reverently. Then, John gets onto his knees in the bed. He drapes his legs over Sherlock, lowering his body down to straddle him.

Sherlock flinches. “Ow!"

John freezes. “Oh! What happened?”

“My shins,” Sherlock pouts. “ _Someone_ kicked them earlier.”

John covers his face with amused exasperation. “Yeah, sorry about that. Habit? Self-defence?”

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “If you hope to earn my forgiveness, John, you’ll need to remove your clothes.”

John beams. “Perfect!” He pulls his shirt over his head and quickly begins to unbutton his trousers. 

Sherlock bites his bottom lip hungrily as he watches John undress, and he is _insanely_ aroused. Sure, John isn’t handsome in the traditional sense, and Sherlock knows that. But god, right now—as he pulls himself out of those ill-fitting corduroy Grandfather trousers—he couldn’t be any more perfect. 

“Christ, you’re beautiful, Sherlock,” John says, as if echoing Sherlock's own thoughts.

Sherlock inhales deeply. “I was just thinking the same.” He exhales. “About you, I mean. Not about myself."

"Got it." John grins at him as he tosses his trousers to the ground. And just like that, he is completely naked. Sherlock swallows and takes it all in. _All_ of it. Really, there is a lot to take in. Because John’s got an enormous—

"Sherlock, are you alright?" 

"Fantastic." Sherlock smiles from ear to ear. "Come here, you."

John climbs over him, placing his hands and legs on either side of Sherlock’s body. “Can I undress you, too? Or are you required to kick me somewhere first?"

It’s Sherlock’s turn to burst into laughter. “You may undress me. No bruising required, unless that’s what you’re into.”

John waggles his eyebrows coyly as he begins to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt.

As Sherlock watches him, he’s pretty sure he’s wearing the most ridiculous grin he’s ever worn in his life, but he doesn’t care, because he’s _happy_.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” John remarks quietly as he removes Sherlock's final piece of clothing.

Sherlock reaches out his arms to take John's head into his hands, and he gazes up at him for a few seconds before kissing him on the forehead. “You have all the evidence you need, John. Believe it."

John allows his entire body to settle over Sherlock’s, like a warm John-blanket. And then he kisses him; a full body kiss, this time, lips and tongue and teeth. A warm, intimate embrace. Sweaty, naked skin on skin.

Their hips rock in unison as the slick, wet, warm heads of their cocks slide together, over and over and over. And they sigh with the pleasure, and they groan, and they sigh, and they groan, and they sigh, and they whisper one another’s names as if it were a prayer.

After a few moments—(or maybe more than a few, as these particular moments are frankly some of the most intense moments of Sherlock’s life) (and he may have lost track of time) (and possibly space and every other dimension)—Sherlock’s cock is rock hard, throbbing, and begging to be touched. 

“John,” he mumbles. “In my top drawer, you’ll find some lube.” He places a quick kiss on John’s neck. “Use it as you wish to use it.”

“Mmm." John enthusiastically reaches into the drawer and takes out the tube. But before he begins anything new and exciting and possibly quite kinky, he simply places a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Will you turn over onto your stomach for me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s chest swells. Although he thought Captain Watson’s authoritative voice was a turn-on, it doesn’t hold a candle to _this._

John Watson. Just John. Sweet John. Tender John. John who loves him. John he loves. 

He turns onto his belly, and without a second wasted, John is kissing him in all of the right places. Sherlock frots against the mattress, his cock growing even harder. “John,” he says, semi-desperate. “I’m not sure I can last very long.”

John kisses his right shoulder. Sherlock hears the sound of the cap opening, and the liquid pouring onto his fingers.

“You okay?” John asks.

Sherlock smiles. “More than okay.”

John’s index finger begins to move in circles around Sherlock’s arsehole. Then, he feels another finger join in. Both fingers slide into him at once, and he inhales sharply, his body searing with burning pleasure. 

John nuzzles the base of his neck. "Still good?"

“Still good.”

John slides his fingers in further, wriggling them, scissoring them, and working some type of magic that, apparently, only the hands of a doctor hold. 

Before long, Sherlock is gasping and writhing and spinning out of control at John’s touch, and he’s sure nothing in the universe could ever feel better.

He’s wrong.

John’s breath is now hot against the back of his neck, and his body is now pressed into his. A whisper in his ear: “Ready, sweetheart?”

Sherlock’s heart clenches. He’s never been called...never has someone been fond enough of him to… It occurs to him momentarily that he ought to be repulsed by such a word, as he usually detests terms of endearment. But with John...it’s different. 

“Sherlock?” John repeats quietly.

"John," Sherlock says. “One more thing. Please?”

“Of course. What is it?"

Sherlock swallows. “I want to hear you say it."

John kisses him on the earlobe. “Absolutely. Just...give me a moment to gather my thoughts? I’m...not really used to this kind of thing, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Sherlock offers. 

John swats him lightly on the arse. “Shut up.”

“ _You_ shut up.” Sherlock shifts his eyes thoughtfully. "Only... don’t _actually_ shut up. Because I would still like for you to say—“

"That I love you?”

“Yes." Sherlock stops breathing, which means he should probably call the paramedics, but whatever. "Yes. That.”

John nuzzles against his shoulder, sending a shiver of pleasure through his body. “Yeah. Okay. So here's the thing, Sherlock." He clears his throat, which is an adorable habit he has before saying something he believes to be profound. “I love you. You are...without a doubt, the most brilliant man I’ve ever met. But you’re so much more than that. You’re also brave, and you’re wise, and you’re kind. See, you...you sometimes wear this mask, you know, to keep people from getting close to you, to knowing who you really are. But for some reason, you never wore that mask around me. I suppose that means you trusted me. And I feel incredibly lucky for that. Because I got to know the real you: the man who loves fiercely, and who fights to do what is right, even when it’s not easy.” 

Sherlock listens silently, completely still—mostly because he’s afraid he will burst into tears at any moment.

“Sherlock,” John continues softly. “Do you realise how much better my life is with you in it? I've never told you, really. But yeah. You...made me feel alive when I was nearly dead, you know? And you bring me joy every single day. Even on the days I want to wring your neck,” he laughs. “You...make me very happy, Sherlock, and I can’t quite imagine my life without you. I don't think I want to, actually."

Sherlock’s eyes are fully leaking now. He buries his face into the pillow to hide the tears.

“And also...” John adds. “...not to be completely shallow, but Jesus, you are bloody gorgeous. I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this. Though I suppose it’s been since day one, at Bart's.”

“Since day one?” Sherlock’s voice cracks like a pubescent schoolboy. But it’s alright, because John loves him.

“Since day one.”

“John. John, John, John.” Sherlock sniffles, gracefully wiping the tears from his face. “I—I don’t know how to respond. I mean you, you should know that I feel—I’m also… I mean…”

John ruffles his hair playfully. “Yes.”

Sherlock smiles against the pillow. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Have sex with me."

“Great plan.” John rearranges his body over his, wrapping him up in his arms. Sherlock notes that John is still fully erect, which will help move the plan along quite nicely. And from what he can tell, all of this talk about _feelings_ has actually caused both of them to become even more aroused.

"Sherlock," John murmurs against his ear. “If it’s alright, I’m going to make love to you, now.

Sherlock's heart skips a beat. Again. John Watson will surely be the death of him. “Yes, John. Do that.”

John slowly presses himself into Sherlock, and everything else fades away. Everything but John, growling lowly as he encases himself in Sherlock’s heat. Everything but their bodies, drenched in sweat, sliding together over the mattress. Everything but John pumping into him, gruffly calling out Sherlock’s name as he frots against the mattress.

“God, John.” Sherlock’s fingers scrabble wildly over the sheets to grasp onto anything they can. “I’m already so close, I—Ohhhh.” He can feel it in his whole body, the trembling sensation, like the rainfall before a flood.

John grips firmly at Sherlock’s hips, and he lightly digs his nails into his flesh. Sherlock groans lowly and backs himself up into him, forcing him to go more deeply, until he brushes against his prostate. “John,” Sherlock sighs. “Deeper. Deeper, oh god,” and John skilfully and relentlessly pumps into him. “Yes, like that. Christ, John, you’re so deep, deeper than anyone has ever been before, oh God—“

John takes Sherlock’s hand into his. “I’m going to come, Sherlock,” he murmurs as he weaves their fingers together. “I’m going to come so fucking hard for you. But I need you to come first, alright? Can you do that? Can you come for me, sweetheart?”

Sherlock loses all self-control as his body freezes. 

He never, ever thought it would come to this. Poor observation skills were to blame for him not to have noticed John’s love. But as for himself, not realising how madly and deeply in love he is with John—what a fool he’d been.

He comes with a grunt, crying out John’s name. His entire body shakes, his cock throbbing, ejaculating in warm liquid spurts. And John is coming, too, swearing and burying his face into Sherlock’s shoulder as he drives himself to completion.

(John swears a lot when he comes. Sherlock already knows this, because the walls in their flat are thin. And today, he's saying some of the filthiest things Sherlock has ever heard come out of his mouth, and it’s fantastic.)

As John begins to slow down, he collapses fully onto Sherlock's back. 

“Wow,” he remarks eloquently. 

“Yeah,” Sherlock agrees. 

“That was amazing.” 

“Incredible.” 

“We’ll definitely need to do it again.” 

“Absolutely.” Sherlock takes his hand and kisses the tips of his fingers. “Oh, and by the way, I’ve just solved the Clarendon murder case.”

"The what?” John asks groggily. “Oh. Sherlock, you can’t be serious right now—“

Sherlock is 100% serious, though. 

“I’m 100% serious,” he says. “It came to me as soon as you—well, came. Like a light switching on.”

John rolls onto the bed beside him, sighing happily. “Congrats, Sherlock. Your solution truly did work.”

“Yes." Sherlock turns to his side, gazing over at him, and it feels as though they're floating beneath a cloud of giddiness. "Though it had far more benefits than I predicted.”

“Yeah.” John grins, his eyelids drifting closed. “Best plan ever.”

“Yes.” Sherlock clears his throat. “So I suppose I should get back to work, then.” 

“What?” John looks over at him and frowns. _“Now?”_

Sherlock nods. “Need I remind you that a killer is running free?”

"Right. Well. I suppose I could go shower.” John sits up, moves to the edge of the bed, and leans down to collect his clothing. 

Sherlock shuffles over and lays his head onto John’s shoulder, snuggling into him. "John." 

He feels John smiling.“Yeah?”

Sherlock takes him by the shoulders, looks him deeply in the eye, and smiles at him affectionately. “Could you pass me your laptop?"

“Sherlock!"

"Oh. Could you pass me your laptop...please?"

John is shaking with laughter as he turns towards the nightstand. "To be fair, I don’t know what I was expecting," he mumbles to himself.

"Pardon?

"Nothing." John hands him the laptop. “Here you are, gorgeous,” he says with a wink.

“Thanks.” Sherlock opens the laptop and immediately begins typing. 

John stretches his arms over his head. “Alright, then. Good luck with...the murder...typing...thing.” He stands.

Sherlock scowls. "I don't need luck," he states, continuing his task. “However, there is one final thing before you go—“

John tilts his head towards him. “What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stops typing. He looks up, and the two men gaze at one another adoringly over John’s stolen keyboard.

“I love you, John,” he says. 

A grin overcomes John’s face. “I know." And he turns to leave. 

Sherlock watches him go, delighted that he is still entirely naked. In fact, he watches him very, very closely. Studies him, really. Every move. And John is giving him quite a bit of material to work with, so he keeps his eyes fixed on him until he’s out the door. 

And he's _totally_ allowed to do that.

Because he loves John. And John loves him back.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story was inspired by a song of the same name by The Cardigans. This song has nothing to do with the story, I just liked the title. Yay!


End file.
